


Incredibly

by constellationsofsentences



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus Dumbledore Being an Idiot, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter Needs a Hug, Marauders Friendship (Harry Potter), Post-Marauders' Era, Raising Harry Potter, like its minor. but.. u kno its there.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 10:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16406813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constellationsofsentences/pseuds/constellationsofsentences
Summary: “They’re dead,” he mutters, and Remus feels the world collapse. “James and Lily, and–and You-Know-Who.”He cannot breathe.





	Incredibly

**Author's Note:**

> all aboard the angst train! lol this fic swallowed me whole and wouldn't let me out until i wrote it so... here it is. xoxo

The world is alight with fire, and noise, and terror. It oozes out of every crevice, every desperate murmur, every wretched, victorious stare. Remus Lupin stares down Daedalus Diggle until he tells him what happens.

“They’re dead,” he mutters, and Remus feels the world collapse. “James and Lily, and–and You-Know-Who.”

Remus knows that the world is celebrating, tonight. That thousands of families will remember this as the day they were freed. But James and Lily are gone. The world is safer, but it is far less bright. The mark of the Phoenix burns against his side, contorted by scars and bruises. And the mark that James and Lily left makes his heart contract. He cannot breathe.

Diggle says nothing when Remus stands, blood roaring in his ears.

 

Remus didn’t know about his friends’ plotting, not truly, until the vow of silence. James pretended it was to prove Filch wrong on some arbitrary accusation during detention, but Remus saw the mandrake leaves Sirius deposited into James and Peter’s waiting hands. He saw their shared grins, the chalkboards they carried around their necks like medieval schoolchildren. McGonagall told them off for being petulant, but she smiled at them when they turned away.

It was quiet in their dorm for a month, but Remus waited until they were finished before he hugged each of them in turn.

“You’re the stupidest, most ridiculous, most amazing bastards I’ve ever known,” he told them. James laughed, in that sunlike way he used to, like his laughter was full of toffee and he wanted to share it with the whole room.

 

And then it hits him, a heavy, solemn thump in the forefront of his brain. The tears stop, he looks up. He remembers: they had a secret-keeper. It’s the final blow. The world collapses, heavy and final and miserable. Remus follows suit quickly after, crouching against the wall and sobbing, while the people inside begin to sing with joy. If Remus had a pensieve, he would remove every word Sirius had ever spoken, every joke and casual remark and hopeless, desperate declaration of love from his mind. He must have been a good fucking actor for all those years. The thought stirs him. He lifts his head. A few people seem to recognise him, sitting on the steps to the Leaky Cauldron. They wince awkwardly, before hurrying into the pub. A party is already in full swing. They have already forgotten those who gave their lives for these moments, have already forgotten the pain and the terror that came with it.

Or maybe they’re only holding it back. Maybe, once the party has petered out and each are back in their ruined homes, back in their empty bedrooms where their loved ones should be, they will sit, and cry, as Remus is now.

He gets up. He won’t cry over a man who did him such wrong. If Sirius killed his best friend, if he hurt the ones he claimed to love so much, he doesn’t deserve a single tear. But Harry needs people. Harry, who will undoubtedly soon be safely dumped in whatever family Dumbledore deems suitable, needs someone to fight for him.

Sirius is supposed to be that person. Sirius will not be that person. So Remus will take his place.

 

Apparation alway leaves him a little winded. Today, it is far worse than usual. He stumbles, swearing, eyes still wet. The house is covered in soot, blackened by whatever explosion vanquished You-Know-Who. The front door has fallen over, battered and ripped in two.

And there is James, on his back in the middle of the hall, mouth still open in shock, though his eyes are closed. His wand has fallen out of his hand, split perfectly down the middle by whatever Dark magic had been done in this house on that night. There’s a cracked photo that’s fallen off one of the end-tables. Lily’s bright eyes smile up at him, a newborn Harry bouncing in her lap. She’s barely twenty in the picture. She’s barely twenty-one now. The feeling that’s holding Remus’ heart captive tightens. He slips the photo into his bag, gently, silently, in case there’s somebody still here.

 

There is. He can hear them, upstairs, gently sobbing, footsteps creaking. It could be Peter, but this person’s too light on their feet, too quiet with their cries. Remus grabs his wand, ascending the stairs. He reminds himself that Sirius is not a friend. He was never a friend, he knows. He killed his best friend, his brother, his _family_. He must have. Who else could it have been?

Remus can see the figure, leaning over Harry’s cot, which is still intact despite seemingly being the centre of the explosion. He steels himself, seeing the familiar terrible hair, the jumper that he knows once belonged to him.

“Get away from there,” he says, forcing himself to sound angry, stoic.

The figure turns. “Moons,” he breathes. His eyes are wet with tears, too. Remus forces himself not to break down. His legs are shaking.

“There better be a really fucking good explanation for this.”

Sirius stares at him. “Do you think it was me?”

“Who else?” It’s a whisper.

Sirius makes an awful noise in the back of his throat. It makes Remus want to punch him. How dare he come here, to the home of someone he just helped to kill?

He repeats it. “Who else, Sirius. Who else could it have been, you––!” There’s not a good enough insult to express all he feels about Sirius right now.

Harry begins to wail. Sirius turns around like he wants to pick him up, but Remus levels his wand at him. He takes a huge, gulping breath, and binds him. The ropes snake out of his wand fast, and the hurt in Sirius’ eyes as he collapses is haunting. Remus gulps again. He goes to check on the baby, hugging him carefully to his chest.

“Mama,” he gurgles. “Papa.” Remus’s heart struggles against its restraints.

“I know, I know, Harry. Mummy and Daddy, they love you so much.”

Harry quietens, grabbing hold of Remus’ shirt. It’s hard, to hold his wand out and hold the baby at the same time.

“It wasn’t me, Moony,” murmurs Sirius. “I swear it.”

“Well then who the fuck was it?”

Sirius’ face contorts. “I mean––It was my fault, but it wasn’t me, Moons. A couple of days ago, I convinced them to change it, so that Peter was secret keeper. And he––“ Sirius breaks off, sobbing. Harry makes a noise, disquieted. Sirius gazes up at him, desperate and hoping and so, so broken. And Remus believes him. Maybe it’s him being stupid, or maybe it’s just far more plausible than the alternative. He collapses down against his friend, his companion, the love of his life.

“They’re going to come looking for you, you know. And Dumbledore’s going to drag Harry… somewhere. You know they won’t let me have him. Because I’m a werewolf, and especially because of us.”

“You love him. You’re in the will.”

“D’you think that will matter?” It’s horrible to say it, but he knows it’s the truth. Gingerly, careful not to drop the baby, Remus reverses the curse. “You’ve got to go, Pads. Somewhere they won’t find you. I’ll contact you when I can, and we’ll figure out what to do, but for now, I just have to fight it.” _No matter how useless it is,_ he doesn’t say. Sirius doesn’t say it either. “I love you.”

“I’ll go to Andy’s. I love you,” Sirius murmurs, “too.”

There are voices outside, but the anti-apparition charms were broken with their caster’s death. Sirius blinks out of existence just as Minerva McGonagall comes rushing up the stairs. She, too, is crying. She looks at the baby, carefully, miserably. And then she holds out her hands.

“Where will you take him?” he asks, voice breaking.

“Lily’s sister. She–“ she breaks off. Nothing she says can make this any better. Remus remembers the day James first met Petunia and her ghastly husband. They had laughed about it for weeks. And now she’s going to raise their _baby_. The universe really has done a number on this. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. Can I talk to Dumbledore?”

 

Dumbledore has multiple (bullshit) explanations about the power of love or something. Remus rolls his eyes and holds Harry close and gets increasingly angry. Dumbledore refuses to budge. Remus stares him down, and Dumbledore keeps waffling about blood magic and true love, every bit of it (to Remus’ ears) nonsense. Before he knows it, Harry has been swept up into Hagrid’s arms, and they are gone, leaving Remus standing in front of the ruins of his dead best friend’s house. Alone.

Like always, he supposes, and heads to the nearest magical library.

 

It turns out that no amount of legal knowledge is going to wrestle Harry from the Dursley’s care. Dumbledore sits, impassive, in his office, and says, “If it helps, I’m sending somebody to watch them.”

It doesn’t, not even slightly, but Remus thanks him anyway. Dumbledore is either blind to the sarcasm or just doesn’t care. Remus gets up, heads for the door, and stops. The idea blooms, and before he’s even made it to McGonagall’s office, it’s fully-formed and, he thinks, rather brilliant.

 

“This _informant_ of Dumbledore’s,” he asks. “Who is she?”

 

Her name, it turns out, is Arabella Figg, and she is a squib with a penchant for cats and fruit cake. She is also, by a wonderful coincidence, just about the right age to pass as his mother. McGonagall gives her his contact details, and he smiles, nods, and goes to write Mrs Figg an owl.

 

Andy welcomes him into her home with wide arms. Little Nymphadora, precociously demanding she be called Tonks, babbles about how nice Mr. Sirius is and how she’ll miss him when he’s gone. She leads Remus, imperiously, by the hand, down to the basement, where an inflatable mattress lies, with a tall man on top of it.

“Hey,” he says, soft, when they come in. Tonks mirrors his face in her own tiny one, which is more than a little alarming. Sirius rolls his eyes, calls her a ‘tiny little menace’, and pushes her out of the door. They don’t say much, after Remus explains what he intends to do, but Remus rests his head on Sirius’ lap and Sirius bends down over him and peppers him with kisses and says, “You’re amazing.”

Remus sits up, suddenly shameful. “There was—what? Half an hour there where I hated you. Why did you—“

“Did you really hate me? Or did you only assume what anyone would have? It was awful, Moony, but it’s how it is.”

Remus wonders if this thing that’s clenching on his heart will ever set him free. “I should have believed you.”

“Yeah,” says Sirius. “Maybe. But can we change it?” He shakes his head, minutely. The Tonks family bustle around upstairs. Ted’s voice echoes down into the basement: he is scolding his daughter for some sort of prank. Remus hears a faint, childish cry of outrage, a slamming door.

“I can’t—we gotta get Peter. And then we gotta get Harry back. Petunia doesn’t fucking deserve—“ Sirius cuts himself off.

“I know,” murmurs Remus. “Fuck, I know.”

Sirius doesn’t reply. Remus trails a finger along the stripes of the duvet and wonders if the clawing grief will ever leave. He’s still wearing the same socks he wore on Hallowe’en: grey, with white stripes, caked with the strange ash that had enveloped James and Lily’s home. Sirius’ outfit (oversized pyjamas, courtesy of Ted, carefully pressed) is cleaner, and arguably more flattering. Remus needs a new wardrobe even more than usual.

Ted and Andromeda have gone to bed, and the house is quiet. The silence beats against Remus’ eardrums, heavy and desperate and _deafening._ He lies down on his side on the tiny bed. Sirius joins him, so that their faces are practically touching. For a moment, Remus just watches Sirius’ expression. His eyes, usually bright with mirth, are dull.

Remus looks at Sirius, in the dim light of the bulb Ted and strung up hastily when Sirius collapsed on their doorstep. He looks at the newfound frown lines on his forehead, at the lumpiness of his hair.

He says, “I love you so much. You know that, right?”

Sirius only presses his forehead against Remus’. It’s enough.

 

Arabella Figg meets them at a service station a few miles outside of London. Sirius stands around Remus’ legs, ready to run, while Remus lugs their battered suitcases behind them. They’d said goodbye to Andy early in the morning, and apparated bit by bit along the motorway, because apparating long-distance with so much suitcases and a dog-man is tiring work. He’d chosen his outfit carefully, going for broke but well-behaved university graduate as much as possible. He wants the Dursleys to think he’s a good, well-behaved son. He doesn’t want them to even suspect he knows what he’s trying to do. That he knows what they’ve done.

 

There was a funeral, for James and Lily. Tiny and private and Remus had to leave Sirius behind, mournful and desperate and so, so tired.

Petunia wasn’t there. She sent flowers (tulips, already wilting and too bright, too cheerful) instead. It was just him and the remaining order members, who gave him sad looks and patted him on the shoulder consolingly. Remus stood through it all, expression unchanging.

 

He remembered, all those years ago, sitting with Peter by the lake, watching Sirius and James dick around while trying to do some bullshit assignment from Binns. Peter had chewed on his pen, shirt untucked and hair sticking up because he’d forgotten to comb it that morning.

He’d said, “I’m so lucky to have you tossers.”

Remus had smiled. “Not as lucky as I am,” he’d said, thinking about deer and dogs and rats and wolves, about midnight feasts and fireworks in the Slytherin common room.

“Do you think, after school, we’ll stay in touch? We’ll still be friends?”

And Remus, the fool, had said, “Of course. We’re the Marauders, aren’t we? Friends for life?”

And Peter, the bastard, had nodded and said, “You’ll always be my best friends.”

 

Remus can’t wait to find him and punch him in the face. Or maybe he’ll wait until he transforms and then step on him.

 

But right now, as he climbs into Mrs Figg’s tiny car and Sirius rests his head on Remus’ knee, he thinks about Harry. Harry, one year old, already obsessed with quidditch. Harry, who laughed with delight every time sparks came out of somebody’s wand, who had grabbed Remus’ fingers and pinched his knuckles, eyes half closed. Harry, who is stuffed in a cupboard, crying, while his aunt get continually more and more furious.

She doesn’t deserve the kid. Lord knows she doesn’t want him.

 

So, as he watches the hills rise and fall alongside the motorway, Remus promises himself he will save Harry. For James, and for Lily. For Sirius.

For himself.

**Author's Note:**

> the [tumblr](http://lamegfx.tumblr.com)! 
> 
> yooo i am so excited for this fic. it's gonna be a big one i bet and updates will probably be slow but!!!!!! im happy w how its turned out so far. ive also already written a companion-y piece from the point of view of the people of privet drive and might post that in a bit. we'll see.....


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